


Radio Times

by telemachus



Series: Chasing Cars [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: Cadbury's 99 flake icecream, M/M, Stuart just can't say, Teenagers, Vince never says anything, underage only as in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That scene.<br/>Yes, that one.<br/>Stuart, Vince, and a copy of the Radio Times - with guest appearance by Hazel.</p><p> </p><p>(now fits chronologically "inside" Opportunities)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Oh my God.

I’m looking at you.

Watching.

Can’t look away.

Can’t stop staring.

I didn’t know.

Didn’t know it would be like this.

That I’d feel like this – that you – that – oh Jesus.

Oh my God.

You don’t need a bike, don’t need leathers. You’re fantastic. 

Should I say that? Is that what you’re meant to do, when it’s – like this?

But you know, don’t you? You know that. You know how we are. You know – you must know – this is it. This is – it.

There’s a rustle, Radio Times fallen to the floor. I don’t care, don’t care if it’s all scrunched, if Hazel says something. I’ll buy her a new one to shut her up if I have to.

You – you’re flushed, you’re panting, desperate. Like you’ve never come before, like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

I’ve done that to you.

Holy Christ, Sweet Mary Mother of God, I did this, I did this to you. To _you_. You – you care this much. You’re – you’re mine.

Don’t – don’t know what to do. How to show you. You won’t look at me, you’re – you’re what – I don’t know – don’t know what you’re thinking – what you’re going to think afterwards – tomorrow – if you’ll just – walk away, turn away, if it’ll be like it usually is. 

I don’t think I could bear that.

I – no – not that – but – you wouldn’t – would you?

You’re – we’re – you wouldn’t walk away.

And I’m terrified suddenly.

But I’m not a coward, not going to let on, not going to act like a sodding girl, not going to ask, say anything.

Only – I want – want so much – to show you – somehow – this – this matters – this is – different – but you – you aren’t looking at me – thinking about kissing you – but – if I – shit, just the thought of it – can’t – can’t keep control – I’d lose it – and – and I won’t – not even for you – not going to come so fast – holding on – somehow – needing to – to do something – to show you – want – need – and suddenly I remember some daft black and white film, some old romance, watching it with Mum – and that thought slows me down – but – there was a bit when the bloke just sort of leaned over, and brushed the girl’s hair off her face, and – and Mum kind of – sighed – and – maybe – if I reached out – touched you like that – that bit of hair that’s never quite where it’s meant to be – maybe – would that – would you understand?

I don’t know – don’t know about this. Any of it. How you make me feel. What to do, how to say.

I can’t. Can’t say it.

Even though I think you’d probably like to hear it.

You might not.

Might – might think I was daft.

Boys, men, don’t say that kind of thing.

But just – reaching out, touching you, saying it without saying – that would be ok, wouldn’t it?

And I’m going to, really going to, and you – you’re looking, not at my face, but – but you’re looking – you want me – you want me to – and then – oh for fucks sake.

“Boys, I’m back, you still up there? Only the ice-cream van was by, so I got you 99s.”

Fuck.

And you’re pulling away, zipping up, fuck knows how, fuck, shit, bugger, wank.

Or not, I suppose.

“Rather have a 69,” I say, but you – you won’t look at me, you’re all flushed, and it isn't sexy now, it’s panic, it’s – I don’t know. 

You turn away, and for a moment, for a moment I think – think I’ve lost you – think you’re like all the others – think that now – now you don’t want anything else from me.

But then you swallow, and turn back, and you still can’t meet my eye, but you’re smiling, and shrugging, and,

“You wouldn’t – you haven’t – have you?” in that half-scared, half-awed voice, and I can see – I’m still your mate, your best mate who knows everything, who’s done everything, still the one you ask about stuff, still the one you look up to.

So that’s ok.

All the same, I think, as I follow you down the stairs, as I take the cone from Hazel, as I lick it, knowing you’re watching, putting on a show for you; all the same, I wish we’d had a bit longer.

Because I don’t think I’ve got the courage to try again.

And you don’t have the words to talk about what just almost happened, any more than I do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s days before you relax properly again, before you stop flinching and moving away, before you talk like – like _my_ Vince, jabbering away about fuck-knows-what, sci-fi or stars or some such shit, something tragically sad and embarrassing, but important to you, not like the Vince everyone else hears, all sensible and normal, and what happened on Corrie last night, what d’you think of United’s chances next season.

Days where I understand one thing.

I can’t – mustn’t – ever let us get so close again.

Can’t risk you closing up, turning away, getting bored of me, stopping looking at me, stopping – stopping being my friend.

So I don’t say anything about any of it.

If you wanted to, you would. And you don’t.

But now – now we’re lying out here in the grass, Marie’s up in her room, ‘studying’ she calls it, Mum and Dad have gone out to buy plants or walk up on the Edge or something equally fucking tragic – and we’re alone, and you’re talking away, relaxed and normal-for-Vince. And no-one can see us.

And I reach over, while you’re still talking, and just – brush that bit of hair away from your face, to where it ought to be, gently.

And you smile.

And I smile back.

And there aren’t words for it. Or if there are, I don’t know them, and for once, for once you aren’t wittering on.

We’re just silent a moment.

And I was right.

This is it, this is enough, this is – everything.

All the rest – snogging, shagging, wanking, 69s – even the things I haven’t done yet – it doesn’t count.

It doesn’t have anything to do with this.

With you and me, Stuart and Vince.

You’re my friend.

And I’m not going to let anything change that.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I can’t look at you.

All I can do is watch your hand. 

Oh my God.

I didn’t know.

I – I didn’t know – didn’t know it would be like this.

I want – I thought – I – I always thought – if – if we – or anyone – I thought – somehow I thought there’d be kissing.

Or something – touching – words – something more than – this.

This feels – like – like you don’t – of course you don’t. You don’t want this.

Not really.

How could you?

With me.

Only you are, you are, and it’s – oh my God – it’s just – so – so good.

I’ve dropped the Radio Times. Oh my God. Now it’s obvious, like it wasn’t anyway, obvious that it wasn’t him I was hard for, that it’s you. Oh my God, Stuart, it’s you, please, please, don’t stop, don’t, please – please – I don’t know what to do – don’t know how. I’m going to get it all wrong, I won’t be any good at this, want to so much, but you – you – how can I be good enough? I just – please – just this once – kiss me – please – I want – I don’t know how – but I want to – want to touch you – want – oh my God – and I know – I know you’re only doing this because I made it too easy, made it easier than not, I know that, know you don’t really fancy me – but – please – and I suppose I ought to do something, ought to – to not just lie here and – but I don’t know – I don’t know – tell me, tell me what you want, you know I don’t – I haven’t – please, Stuart.

And you’re reaching for yourself, and maybe – maybe – I’m biting my lip, I’m going to, I am, I’m going to reach out, touch you, and – and I want to even – lick – oh my God just the thought of it – I don’t think you’ve done that so maybe you’d like it – and maybe – maybe it’ll be ok. If I did – you might want to do it again, mightn’t you?

“Boys, I’m back, you still up there? Only the ice-cream van was by, so I got you 99s.”

Shit.

Mum.

And you – you don’t seem too sorry to let go, so – so you didn’t really want – you were just being kind, and that’s worse than anything.

Standing up, turning away, don’t want you to see how quickly I’ve lost it, don’t want you to see – I’m not crying, I’m not, 

“Rather have a 69,” you say, and for a moment, for a moment I think maybe you mean – but then I hear the laugh in your voice, you’re always laughing you are. So I just swallow the pain down, like I learnt to years ago when people ask ‘where’s your daddy then’ or ‘why aren’t you making a father’s day card’, and turn back, all tucked in, all tidy and normal as I can manage, and almost laugh and shrug, and like you want me to, I say,

“You wouldn’t – you haven’t – have you?” and let you grin at me like you know everything I don’t, everything I want to know, taking in the meaning. That you have, that you’ve done that too, that – that there’s almost nothing you haven’t – that I can’t ever be first for you, just like I know I’ll never be best.

Clatter down the stairs, and – and oh Mum, I do love you,

“Thanks Mum,” and I can’t help but hug her, because – because I know somewhere that if she hadn’t come back – if we’d – I’d’ve made a right bloody fool of myself. Better this way.

Much better.

“Thanks Hazel,” you say, and – bloody hell, what are you like, Stuart, making a performance of an ice-cream. 

Definitely better this way.

You’d only laugh at me, if we – because I couldn’t do anything that would look half as good as that.

 

 

 

 

I like it here, your Dad’s garden. Nice. 

Like it better when he’s not around, mind, when I don’t have to do all the ‘yes Mr Jones’, all the answering questions about school, about teachers, about homework, and why aren’t I a scout, isn't that a nice thing for lads our age?

Still.

It’s nice, is this, sitting out, you listening to me for once, well, sort of, much as you ever do, but relaxed, not showing off.

Been a couple of days now, since the – the thing we don’t talk about – and I was right, I must have been – you didn’t really want it, you were just being – kind. I know you, if you’d wanted it, you’d have done something about it again by now.

So best left, best not talked about, best ignored.

Thanks Mum, it’d’ve been awful to lose this.

Suddenly, and I knew you weren’t properly listening, you lean over, and there’s a moment when I think – think you’re going to – but you just flick the hair off my face, back where it ought to be, always trying to tidy me up, you are, always trying to make me cool. 

Yeah, good luck with that, Stuart.

And I grin at you, like a fool, because it’s funny, really, you always trying to make me better, make me good enough to be with you.

You grin back, and I’m waiting for the sarky comment, the put-down, but it doesn’t come. 

So maybe, just like this, as mates, maybe I’m doing alright.

We’re friends.

And nothing’s going to change that.

I hope.


End file.
